


This is my gun (There are many like it, but this one is mine)

by Lassroyale



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Blow Jobs, Disturbing Themes, Episode: s02e09 Croatoan, Episode: s05e04 The End, Future Castiel, Future Dean Winchester, Future Fic, Gunplay, Guns, M/M, Sexual Violence, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassroyale/pseuds/Lassroyale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows that the future is vastly different, but it’s only when he catches Cas on his knees sucking down on the barrel of a .45, that he realizes how much has really changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is my gun (There are many like it, but this one is mine)

### 

The future, Dean thinks, is a pretty fucked up place on all accounts. It’s stark and harsh, the landscape painted in post-Apocalyptic shades of gray that sting the eyes with windswept grit. He doesn’t quite know how to navigate through it; he’s unsure of how it’s supposed to feel on his skin as ashy snow rains down from the sky. When Dean looks up, the sun looks dead.

 Perhaps the biggest difference is in his own attitude, well, _future_ Dean’s attitude - and how fucked up is _that_? - and in the fact that Castiel is now ' _just Cas_ ', a mere fucking human. His smile hurts Dean; there’s disappointment and pain in the furrows of his laugh lines when he grins, sharp and biting. There’s nothing of the simplistic joy or honest discontent he’s used to seeing in _real_ Castiel’s eyes, because no matter what anyone says, this one - this _just Cas_ \- is not his. This one is a doppelganger, just like future-Dean is a doppelganger: not real; could never be real; should never be real.

 He watches, his skin fitting incorrectly (crawling) as future-Dean and not-Cas goosestep around one another in an edgy, angry dance. Dean sees the way this future Castiel looks at him with sadness in his eyes, as if he's just not seeing what he’s supposed to. It frustrates him, and so he avoids the two of them (his future self and his immutable anger; not-Cas and the painful ache ground into the curve of his brittle grin) for as long as he can stand it. Fuck them both; fuck them and this fucked up world that he does not want to believe that he’s had any part in shaping.

 Still, Dean can't help but speculate about the two. He can only hazard a vague guess here and there about what’s happened between he and Cas; he wonders after the tight knot of animosity and tension that keeps them tied together even after the world has, by all accounts, gone to hell.

Dean gets his answer (sort of; not really) when he stumbles in upon Cas on his knees sucking down on the barrel of future-Dean's .45 caliber Colt 1911. The sight forcibly stops him, a frissure of desire so raw and undeniable tearing through him with such force that it was staggering. He can't look away, his mouth going dry when Cas moans, his lips stretching wider around the Colt's barrel, the corners of his mouth spit-slick and shiny.

 As Dean watches, struck dumb, hard and impossibly turned on, future-Dean cocks the gun and shoves it deeper into Cas’ mouth. The inflexible metal cuts a careless line across Cas’ gums, a thin trail of blood trickling down over his chin, seconds later. The shameless, almost painful bulge of his cock pressed hard against his inseam, mirrors the stiffness of future-Dean’s cock when he frees it from his jeans, the tip already drooling pre-cum. Future-Dean strokes himself at a quick, unforgiving pace, fucking the gun into Cas’ mouth in sync with each rough slide of his fist.

 In turn, Cas fucks into his own hand, filthy pants riding low on too-thin hips as he bucks forward erratically. His eyes are half-lidded and unfocused as he continues to sloppily fellate the barrel of the gun - the same gun that Dean currently has shoved into the back of his jeans. Briefly, he wonders if his fingers would come away wet with Cas' spit if he pulled it out right then and touched the barrel. It's a transient thought; the only thing Dean can focus on is the bruised redness of Cas’ mouth, his attention wholly absorbed by what looked like saliva and gun oil smearing the left corner.

 He can’t help but be horrified and yet disgustingly hard, as Cas pulls off the barrel with an obscene, wet-sounding pop and tongues the muzzle. Cas licks along the slide; Dean hears the scrape of his teeth over the nickel-plated metal. When Cas begins to suck on the trigger guard, his tongue flicks out over the cold metal and catches the callused tip of future-Dean's trigger finger, in the process.

It's unconsciously sensual; Dean barely manages to stifle his gasp as the breath explodes from him like it'd been punched out by Lucifer. The action seems deeply intimate as compared to the stark and implicit violence that saturated the entire situation; it was in a way incongruous and yet strikingly appropriate. When Cas recklessly repeats the motion, giving an impetuous glance up at future-Dean from beneath the fringe of his eyelashes, Dean sees his future-self shudder almost imperceptibly; future-Dean's mouth goes momentarily lax, and an involuntarily moan escapes him before it can be bitten back.

 Almost immediately future-Dean recovers, and though his expression is inscrutable Dean reads bald anger in the tight press of his lips. Fury seethes in-between his future-self's teeth and festers about the rigid set of his mouth like an infected wound. Future-Dean repays Cas' folly with a snarl and snaps out a harsh, “Get on with it.”

 Cas doesn't say anything. He simply complies, taking the barrel of the gun back into his mouth and hollowing out his cheeks as he sucks _hard_ , like he _wanted_ to suck out a bullet and splatter his brains all over the goddamned place.  Future-Dean thrusts the gun down Cas’ throat with a vicious twist, coming hard into his own hand with a low, guttural groan when Cas begins to gag and choke.

 Dean can feel his future-self's groan curl around the base of his spine.

 He must make a sound, some sort of disbelieving noise, because suddenly Cas startles, pulling off the gun and turning his head towards him. Future-Dean jerks too, his hand twitching. The gun goes off inches from Cas’ head. Cas pitches forward with a strangled cry, coming hard and striping the dirty floor with a couple jerky twitches of his hips. There’s blood and spit on Cas’ chin; he presses a hand to his left ear and when he pulls it away, it is wet and red.

 Cas looks at him and laughs, loud, desperate, and broken. There’s anger in future-Dean’s eyes.

 Dean backs up and then runs, making it as far as around the corner of the next building over before he’s leaning back against it and frantically pulling out his cock. He's so fucking hard, it almost _hurts_. He jerks himself viciously as he fucks forward into his fist, the image of Cas sucking down on the barrel of his .45 emblazoned in his mind. Dean bites the edge of his hand when he comes to hold back his cry, his orgasm intense and draining as he shoots come, hot and sticky, into his palm.

Dean slumps back against the ramshackle building and tries not to think about what it might mean.

 

### 

 

“Hey Cas,” Dean says, sitting in some shitty motel room in Virginia. The mattress is hard and the sheets smell faintly of mildew. “I want to try something.”

Castiel, implicitly trusting, frowns but allows Dean to press the muzzle of his .45 against his temple as he kneels and sucks Dean’s cock.

  
(The End.)


End file.
